


Alley With A View

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Darcy Lewis, Blood, Gen, Heavy Injuries, Irish Language, Notre Dame - Freeform, One Shot, Strong Language, and lots of description on that part, darcy lewis runaway, mentions of battling jack, references to Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: In a hilarious twist of fate, he finds her next to a dumpster.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hei people!  
> Flexing my writing muscle a little in order to get back into the MCU-feel :) And since so many of you were so utterly content with _Cinq Sens_ I thought I'd do another Matt/Darcy-one, though this one is a little more in the Gen-Area than a real pairing. I don't think I'll be following this one up, but there might be one similar in the making; farther down the road that is, because I have two stories pending for now and I don't feel like starting things I don't finish - so you may be waiting for it quite a bit (fair warning). 
> 
> Any way: please enjoy - and leave comments galore ;)

In a vaguely hilarious twist of fate he finds her next to a dumpster.

She’s curled into a ball, cowering over her knees that are pushed into her chest and is trying to make herself as small as possible; a target hard to hit ( _he knows the feeling intimately, he’s been there often enough_ ). The stench of rotten eggs, rancid meat and decomposing noodles is overwhelming him and she’s not making a lot of noise which is how he excuses his temporary lapse of _sense_ , before the wind turns ever so slightly and the pungent odour of back-alley-waste dissipates for the merest moment and he seizes the opportunity to take her in.

While her mouth is clamped shut, he can feel the tension in her body even from the distance, hears the way she is shaking by how the leather of her jacket scrapes at the plaster of the building behind her in a rapid staccato, he can pick up on the salt on her cheeks, the clammy droplets of sweat leaving frigid trails down the small of her back and the sweetly-irony scent of clustered blood on her.

Her breathing is laboured and shallow – a clear indicator of pain, if the smell wouldn’t have given her away, but then the wind turns again and he is swamped again with _Eau de Poubelle_ and it’s as if the stench hits him right into the face; he has trouble not swaying where he stands.

“Hey.” He says silently, and stops – there’s a lot of sass on the tip of his tongue _( - that’s my dumpster - )_ but she’s hurt and the way she flinches at the sound of his voice makes him angry at whoever or whatever has put her into her current position, he closes in but lowers onto his haunches once he estimates he’s in her line of vision.

He can tell by the squeak of the leather and the rustle of her hair that she’s looking up, asks himself what she sees and makes a conscious effort to leave as much space as possible between them should she want to bolt – she shouldn’t, not in her current condition ( _closer up the cloying odour of blood is thicker and he wonders just how badly she’s injured_ ) but he won’t hinder her if she feels she’ll need to.

“How bad is it?”

Way to put your foot into your mouth, Murdock, he thinks. People want to hear inconsequential questions _Are you alright_ , _Do you need help_ , _What’s the matter_ – things all conversational partners can brush off without much thought and continue on their way, feeling better about themselves for having stopped a moment.

He doesn’t have the patience for societal niceties today.

A gurgle interrupts his musings and he can hear her blood clogging her windpipe, making her cough – he moves before he can announce it, pulls her out by her ankle so she’s flat on her back, then turns her to the side. Now that she’s open to him he can hear the stutter of her heart fighting to hang on to what seems like shreds of her consciousness, her breathing is still laboured even though the blood clogging her windpipe has successfully drained out of her mouth, the wound on her stomach makes her wheezy at best.

It’s highly disconcerting. Claire would probably clasp her hands in her hair at the state of the woman.

“Bad.” She finally says and it’s a dry comment, even as she peels back her hands from the substantial wound – he doesn’t hesitate to replace them, feel out the depth of her injury (it’s fucking _deep_ , internal damage, if she lives through this it will be one hell of a recovery) – and he can’t help it when his lips twitch of their own accord; he’s always had something for sass in the worst situations.

“You should be in hospital.” He says as he pulls fresh gauze out of his utility belt (Claire stocked him up on what she called ‘First Aid+ Vigilante Edition’).

She sputters when he doesn’t hesitate in swiping at the mottled blood on her stomach, spilling some of the alcohol over her, and the hiss she lets out is angry, but worryingly tired. “Paint a target on my back, why don’t you.” She answers once she has her breath back under control – four counts in, five counts out; he wonders where she learned this. “Was lucky enough to find a quiet place to pass.”

“Like hell you are.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can control it, but as he throws away some of the cotton he’s used to swipe at the blood, he realizes it’s true. He doesn’t know her or her story or why she thinks it’s more honourable to die behind a dumpster than in a hospital (or why she’s scared to go there at all) but he’s not letting her die.

And when she wakes up the next time he’s going to ask her who she’s running from, who did this to her and he’s going to hunt them down.

He doesn’t know why however, though he can tell she’s looking at him, can feel her hard stare and all he can come up with is the way his father’s body felt stiff and cold, still wet with blood under his fingers.

That’s not happening.

Enough of the blood on her skin is gone for him to assess the damage without misjudging it and he prods it with careful fingers – sharp entry, not a bullet (which is good because he can’t dig it out right now and moving her with it might do more internal damage than he or any of his affiliates could repair) and too slim for a knife. An arrow most likely, shot and then pulled it out if the way her skin gives is any indication.

His dressing is sloppy at best but he bandages her with haste before he carefully checks her over again.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice is slurring and it’s worrying him but if he can stop her from dying tonight then maybe God will forgive him that he’s bashed in the face of Frederick Pruzic for his human trafficking.

“I’m going to get you to a friend.” He says succinctly and carefully hoists her into his arm – she is thinner than her clothes would let you believe, but they smell a hundred percent like hers so he ventures a guess that they are and the implications make his inner eye flash white with fury, before he pulls them up onto a fire escape and out of the alley.

“You’ be puttin’em ‘n danger.” Her teeth clack and he knows that _cold_ settling into the body of a severely injured person is not a good symptom – he seriously hopes that Claire won’t behead him for this (they’d had a truce god damn it).

“More than they are in from knowing me?”

She doesn’t answer and he speeds up the moment her weight goes limp in his arm – unconsciousness is one step too far on the scale for his comfort.

 

-

 

“It’s me,” he says when he’s finally outside of Claire’s apartment – Santino is barring the way, Claire behind the young boy, “but it’s not for me.”

The Nurse moves quicker than he thought, opens the window already halfway pulling him through – the choked noise she makes in the back of her throat upon finding the woman in his arms is appreciated, he feels the same way. She’s gone way too cold for his liking, though she’s still breathing, albeit shakily.

“Shit, Matt. What the hell?!”

Santino has cleared the kitchen-table unasked and there’s the slight sting of antiseptic in the air; he wonders if Claire has started to take the young man under her wing clinically speaking – he certainly acts like it, fetching the ‘Go Kit’ and helping Claire take off the clothing.

He dithers, uncertain if he should stay or go – he hasn’t been exactly welcome to Claire’s, but he also can’t let the young woman stay alone (it’s not like he’ll see something he’s not supposed to) and at the first, shocked breath from the woman he’d dragged in he’s at her side, holding her body down from bucking.

“ _Foc_.” She swears – and he’s surprised to hear that it’s very sound Irish pronunciation. “You weren’t kiddin’.”

“He rarely is, sweetheart.” Claire interrupts, already cutting through the gauze he’d haphazardly put on, he could swear her eyes swerve to his figure for a moment, but he can’t be certain, too focussed on the squirming patient.

“I thought I told you-“

Her sentence ends abruptly when Claire prods her wound and she stills to marble underneath him, he wonders if she’s going to throw up but then a high-pitched keening sound emerges from behind her clenched teeth and her shoulders knot up. The bunching muscles in her upper arms let him know that her fingers are searching for purchase, for something to cling to and he doesn’t think, squares one of his arms over her chest, leaden enough to pin her down, soft enough not to squash her and collects her right hand – her left hand follows suit and the moment Claire inspects the internal bleeding she’s clutching at him with such a vehemence that he thinks she might be able to leave dents through the suit.

“Girl you better be a fast healer.” Claire says through her teeth and moves in for the kill – the woman underneath him screeches from behind tight lips through the disinfection and cauterization and he wonders, again, where she learned this, enduring pain in silence, keeping her movements to a minimum, locking herself in. It’s not something a civilian – he assumes she is one (which might bite him later, because he’s _learned_ the hard way what they say about assuming) – should know to do.

“Almost done.” Claire intones a few minutes later – she’s focussed and her voice is far away but the woman under him only whines in acknowledgment, her muscles shaking with the extortion of keeping herself still.

Matt shifts slightly and she clutches his lower arm tighter, chipped nails biting into his protective gear and makes a muffled sound in the back of her throat, he stops his shifting, settles back into the position he’s assumed moments ago – she can pull through this impromptu surgery, he can stay the hell where he is.

Tremors start in her shoulders and he thinks she’s going to cry – it’s not until Claire curses that he realizes she’s going into shock. Santino is already at his side, pushing his arms away and then it’s a shifting of clothes, loads of cursing, language slipping from English to Spanish, chokes, the rattling sound of a body convulsing against the surface of a table, then a soft hiss and stillness.

He’s almost scared to reach for the body he knows is just in front of him, although his heart beats just fine through the icy terror that has settled over it.

“We’re fine.” Claire says and he doesn’t necessarily imagine the soothing compound to her voice, carefully hidden in layers of personal relief; she hates it when people come this close to their end when in her flat. He knows this from experience. He also knows that she’s not particularly fond of people bleeding all over her apartment, or encroaching on her territory, so when he steps forward and checks momentarily for a pulse, he pulls the woman carefully closer and lifts her from the kitchen table, exerting much caution not to jostle the weary, worn traveller in his arms.

“Don’t leave just yet.” Claire’s voice cuts through his concentration- “put her on the couch for now. You can make the home run later.”

Trained as he is he does as told and allows Santino to put a blanket over their patient; her breath is shaky and her heartbeat unsteady but the hands on his do not shiver. She doesn’t speak when he lets her know that he’s just over in the kitchen but he can feel her tired nod.

In the kitchen he allows himself to take off the mask and his gloves, run his fingers through his hair and think, for the first time since he’s found her, what this will mean for him – for The Devil, to now have some unknown variable in their near vicinity. He knows he should drop her off somewhere safe, turn around and walk away. _Paint a target on my back, why don’t you_ – but he knows he won’t; can’t. Not yet.

“Who is she?” Claire asks and her voice is carefully soft, void of most emotions – he can pick up on honest worry, the treble of it sits deep in the nurse’s throat and curiosity, but no other emotions cloud the question.

“I don’t know.” He admits, feels around for the bar-stool he knows is around here somewhere, he finds it three gropes later and pulls it towards him. He waits for a beat before he sits, giving Claire the opportunity to protest – if she wants to, she doesn’t take it then. “I found her next to a dumpster.”

Her snort makes his lip quirk up and he can feel her giving him an incredulous look. “Please tell me not the one-“

The quirk of his lips turns into a full-blown smile, he feels like it should look depreciative but he doesn’t know how it comes across: “Yeah… my dumpster.” _Their_ dumpster, technically, but he’s careful about distancing himself from Claire – she doesn’t need more complications in her life; her one run-in with the Russians has been enough (he can’t ask that of her, not of anyone and she chose the out and he doesn’t fault her for that, not the least).

“What happened to her?”

His face hopefully cooperates, translates the seriousness of the situation. “She wouldn’t say. Nearly bit my head off for trying that wayward gauze – went there to… end in peace.”

Claire’s air leaves her lung in a heartfelt _Christ_ and he can actually feel the sympathetic look she throws towards the living room where Santino sits at the side of the unconscious woman.

“She didn’t want to be brought here; didn’t… doesn’t want to put people into danger.”

The nurse doesn’t say a thing but the air is suddenly loaded with… something akin to expectation and he feels that if he could see Claire would have her hands on her hips and would be giving him a look that would let anyone under twenty know they’re busted and the nurse-lady was on to their shit. “Sounds familiar…” and yeah, the tone of her voice seals that particular image his mind has conjured.

He doesn’t react, carefully catalogues each of his reactions and premeditates them as to not give himself away – it’s hard, but he hopes his body-language blanks the way he wants it to ( _it’s really difficult to do that if one can’t train in a mirror damn-it_ ).

“Which is the reason I was about to leave with her.” He answers instead and Claire turns, rifles for something in her Go Kit and puts it into his hand – it’s gauze first, to replace the one he’s used up on the woman, but when he stashed it away, Claire is waiting for him with something else. She fiddles with his hands for a moment, before she pushes it into them, making his fingers clench around the object reflexively.

“When she wakes up she’s gonna need a tetanus shot – I’d have done it but the way I know you you’ll want to be out of here as soon as possible” – he wants to deny, but knows better than to wade into that battle just yet – “there’s also a shot in case she goes into shock again, she shouldn’t but… just to be certain. You’ll have to exchange the dressing at least every second day, daily in the first three days. If it infects – and I know you know what that feels like – you call me. No hesitance because I swear Murdock if I find the girl on a morgue-table three days from now I’m-a hunt you down and put you to sleep with the fish.”

He doesn’t doubt she’d do her best too – so he nods, attaches the small bag securely to his hip, checks it and then nods again. A shift in the air indicates she’s just done the same and Matt takes this as his cue to leave.

Pulling the cowl back over his head and his gloves over his hands, he returns to the living room, allows Santino to do the uncovering – would be rude to leave blood-stains on a blanket while trying to remove it. Claire stays his movements, wraps the blanket back around the woman who is silent, her breathing indicates she’s sleeping.

“Better to have it and not be cold, her body can’t take much by the way of extremes right now.” A double-thump as Claire pats the thigh of the young woman before she stands, leaving room for Matt to work.

He bends, puts his arms around the woman and taking great care to keep her bundled in, Claire is the medic after all, she knows why she’s doing what she’s doing. He nods at the two of them once.

“Thanks.”

Claire doesn’t answer and as he leaves through the window he knows that he’s still not entirely welcome, but they’ve managed to achieve a truce over the woman in his arms at least – and that’s something.

The woman is deeply asleep before they even reach his flat and he is glad for it given that, at least, she will not be able to divulge his ‘hide-out’ to anyone else if she doesn’t know where it is. Also he might be able to play off the presence of Matt-Murdock-Lawyer as ‘being a reluctant friend of the vigilante’ – it’s unlikely she’s going to buy it (especially considering his name fell while at Claire’s) but there might be a way to salvage it.

He doesn’t call Foggy or Karen – not yet; he needs a way to explain this, he needs to know that he can trust her, no matter on what level, even a superficial one will be appreciated for now; but he’s not putting either of his friends into the line of fire ever again.

Trying to play into his (weak) line of defence and go for ‘Daredevil who?’ he puts her on his couch, pulls a second blanket over her – lightly, because he knows it might get too hot and she might just kick it off – and moves to get rid of his gear. He needs the shower more than he’s needed anything right now (tomorrow, too, he’ll go have a talk with Father P., he feels it’s going to be necessary).

 

***

 

“Who, the fuck, are you?”

The man who’d been fumbling around with a can of coffee lets the utensil drop, metal clanking against metal and plates by the sound of it (she hopes it was empty at least, wouldn’t do to lose the precious liquid of the gods too) turns around surprised, head twisting, trying to find her. She wonders how he can possibly overlook her given that she’s precisely in his range of vision when his hands flitter over the steely counter-top in front of him, running along the edge until they find the knotted top of a… walking stick.

Uh…

“I feel like I should be asking you that question.”

He comes closer quickly; obviously this is his flat: he seems to know it like the back of his hand, makes precise turns – he’s counting the steps she realizes when he arrives at the space between the two couches where she has woken up, disoriented, alone.

“It appears your… friend?-”, he doesn’t correct her, but his face morphs into something slightly put out, “-Acquaintance then… moved me here?” she’s not certain and _dar dia_ she hopes it was the man in the cowl that brought her here, might be she has a track-record with super-heroes-slash-vigilantes but at least he’s kept her from dying – although she still doesn’t know if it’s a good thing she’s not currently a statistic for the unidentified deaths in Hell’s Kitchen.

His knees bend a little and he stretches out a hand, looking for her; she shifts, carefully catches his hand with hers, allows him to take it – he doesn’t move for her face as she’d have expected or the rest of her, but simply studies the hand for a bit.

“You’re feverish.” He finally says with a bit of wonderment, before he taps the inside of her wrist. “Your pulse is quicker than medical expertise would claim to be regular and you’re sort of… flushed.”

She swallows. “Might be your… acquaintance kind of kept me from biting the grass yesterday?” She knows she should be better by now, she’s had much ( _much_ ) worse – but it’s been as close to death as she hadn’t been in a long time…

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a grunt, a little fed up, a little assenting – as if this were a regular occurrence. His fingers fan out over her palm, stretching, seeking.

“Where? And how did it happen?”

While she doesn’t feel like doing the Monty in front of a stranger, he’s blind… and since it’s only the wound he’s interested in she permits herself to strip out of her bloodied clothes, carefully presses his hand to her dressed stitches.

The texture of his fingers is rough, calloused in a way she wouldn’t have expected of a blind man and the sweeps of his appendages are cursory but experienced; as if he was used to this procedure – and she wonders if he is, if his (their?) acquaintance has shown up at his apartment in the middle of the night, needing a quick-fixer-upper. She wonders how a blind man could have picked up on this.

“Doesn’t seem infected.” He finally says. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She swallows. Wonders if she should really pull this man into the maelstrom that was her current predicament – whatever scruples she might have had once upon a time were limited nowadays, but even she has to think twice about putting a clearly differently-abled into a position of danger.

But he notices her hesitation and from his position kneeling in front of her looks up, unseeing eyes finding the general direction of her head and his lips quirk up in a slightly depreciative way.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m disabled, I’m not stupid. Trust me when I say that I will be able to handle what comes out of your mouth – I’m a Lawyer and the reason I usually get his packages is because he thinks your history might need a little justice right now. So… I’m going to ask you to not judge me by my handicap and be honest with me: What happened?”

For a moment yet she dithers, her mouth is dry and she knows that no matter if he’s a lawyer or not, if his vigilante boyfriend won’t take care of him she’ll have his death on her hands – it’s not something she wants, but even less does she want him to think that she’s belittling him. ( _God, but she knows better…_ )

“I got shot.”, she finally manages, licks her lips as his fingers twitch to remove the bandage – he has found the wild assortment of medical utilities on his couch-table and apparently decided to not sit by idly. “Arrow pierced my… I don’t even know what organs there are down there-“

“Intestines if we’re speaking organs, otherwise muscles, specifically rectus abdominis, you’re lucky if it’s only those but considering you said you were close to biting dust I’d say you suffered internal damage?”

She nods, tries to recall something, but she only remembers vaguely. “Yeah. Woman patched me up, was a real peach about it too.” _Claire?_ Why would she remember a name? She can’t even see the faces clearly, with the pain marring the memory.

“ _Christ_.”, he swears, realization dawning on his face as his hands still. “Please tell me you were knocked out.”, he breathes heavy for a moment. “Shit, please tell me you were under any kind of anaesthetic.” His face is pale and horrified; she almost pities him.

“Yeah sure, if unconsciousness counts.”

The next few words out of his mouth are colourful and make her smile a little, it’s heartening to find, after all these years, a person who expresses themselves in such a versatile manner – especially if the topic was her well-being ( _she hadn’t known it but she’d missed it_ ).

He swallows then, removes the gauze finally, fingers the stitched wound and she eyes it – looks clean as a squeaky bathing duck.

“So… shot by an arrow.” He says after swallowing again. “Obviously lethally injured and if she wouldn’t have saved your life in what I assume wasn’t even a hospital I should press you to sue a back-alley doctor for mal-practice, but that’s neither here nor there. How come you were nearly killed by Robin Hood?”

She can’t help the snort. “More like… Sherriff of Nottingham and his Un-Merry Band Of Thugs.”

He stills. “Are you telling me-“

“I’m not telling you a thing.” She interrupts and sits up when he goes for an anaesthetic, anti-bacterial salve and a fresh pack of gauze. “Look… I told your… acquaintance and he wouldn’t believe me but people are looking for me. I need to leave like… yesterday.”

“Who’s following you?” She can’t fault him for his profession – if he’s always this tenacious then bravo, job well picked.

“People. They want me to lead them somewhere and I can’t, okay? I need to get out of the city – fuck, out of the country. I’m too close as it is.”

“Then why did you come here at all?” he asks her and his voice is equal measures hard as it is curious.

“Because I wanted to die in a back-alley as close as I dare to the one thing that’s most precious to me on this planet but your friend-“, he pulls a moue and she ignores it for now, panic is starting back up, she can’t be idle, can’t stay, can’t sit still, needs to leave, she’s too fucking close- “-crossed that plan through very thoroughly. I’m a liability alive, okay? I can’t… look, I’m certain you’d do your best to help me, but you don’t know what I’m running from and I don’t want to pull you into this and it has nothing to do with your different-able-ness, seriously dude, I just… I can’t afford anyone else knowing, yeah? Vision or not, both legs or not. Scruffy saved me and yay, hallelujah, I like my life but-“

“What’s your name?”

He’s smiling as he asks and she’s confused as to why, but he asked her a question and the rules of politeness her mother instilled in her request that she respond properly – and yet, again, she hesitates.

When he smiles, wider this time, he ducks his head a little as if to hide the mimic of his face.

“Whatever you think of saying now, I’ll know it’s a lie – you’re thinking so hard I can practically hear the gears turning.”

“No you don’t.” she snaps maybe a little too close to home, her accent, ( _Dar Dia, but she’s missed this sort of interaction_ ). “Because brains technically work with electricity and while some people say that sensory compensation is a thing I highly doubt even your ears could pick up on my synapses firing, _jerk_.”

The smirk he gives her is full of shit and superiority and she realizes that he’s managed to draw her out – _her_  in all her snarky glory. “Hello.” He says then, smirk still on his face as he offers her his hand. “Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law.”

She takes the hand without thinking, gives it a squeeze that mirrors the one her throat is giving her. “Darcy Lewis, Runaway.”

 

-

 

For all intents and purposes she should leave Matthew Murdock behind, tip-toe out of the undecorated hull of a Loft he calls home and never return; maybe steal a fifty on her way out (as she’s said before: limited scruples, and he’s a lawyer, they get _paid_ ). But for some reason she allows the blind attorney to tug her into one of his shirts and a vest that she picks out for her own. Her jeans are largely okay, they might be slightly bloodied but they’re black and until she’s washed them she’ll be able to get away with a few petty excuses that she’s not above to make (female topics make the entire world uncomfortable). And when that is done, he coaxes her into putting her arm to the crook of his elbow and marches out of the door.

He’s a hurricane, she realizes very quickly.

Blind as a Bat, maybe, but the way he walks speaks of confidence bred either by upbringing or cultivated by sheer force of will – personally she thinks it’s the second – and he steers the crowds with a certainty that she envies him a little ( _there’d been days when she hadn’t been all that different; days gone and past_ ) even though he doesn’t make big steps. No; he is very conscious of her efforts to _not_ hobble in public and she wonders how it is possible for a human being to look intimidating while being fucking blind and having a woman hang on your arm like a wet towel.

But he manages it.

When they turn into a coffee-shop about half-way, he moves with the stealth and grace of a Great White, parting the masses before him without even a word, just the pressed suit, black tie and red-tinted-glasses resting on his nose, the cane gracefully tucked into his side – she wonders how he does it, but doesn’t comment on it.

“You want something?” he asks her when they’re almost up and when he does, he tilts his head a little into her direction, waiting for her response. She would have felt guilty about taking him up on the offer if he’d have asked her two years ago, but scruples went to shit and now she can’t even remember the taste of proper coffee so: “Hell yes.”

His mouth twists in a pleased, if wry, smile and he nods once, as if to prompt her to place her order – and she realizes they’re up.

“Uh…”

It’s been so long since she’s last ordered and she doesn’t even properly remember what she’d liked. She knows she’d been a fan of Pumpkin-Everything when it was October, but it’s February now, so pumpkin-spice is kind of out of the question. Also her intestines are in bad shape and coffee is probably not the best idea right now, no matter how much she’d like it.

“Something sweet?” Matthew asks her silently and she nods, uncertain. “Frothy?” he asks again and she nods, knows vaguely where he wants to go with this and goes along. “Chocolate?” she makes a face and the smile of the barista makes it easier for her to play along to the twenty-questions-shit Matt has going. “Any syrup at all?” She shakes her head and finally Matt turns to the barista. “Can you come up with anything that’s not caffeinated?”

“I know just the thing.” The blonde says with a smile as she jots down the order on a carton, giving Matt a deliberate smile. “Same as always for you three?”

Matt gives her a smile. “And Bagels if you would, please, Henrietta.”

“You got it, Murdock.”

The blonde cashes them in and Darcy is handed a small bag of fresh Bagels – they’re still warm from the oven – and before she can compute is loaded with a set of cup-holders filled with Styrofoam full of caffeine-goodness; she smiles at Henrietta – a forgotten mimic torn from her by the familiarity of juggling coffee, pop-tarts and stacks of paper, while talking on the phone to Ja- _No; not going there._

Her smile abruptly stops, but she swallows around the hesitation in her steps and keeps up with Matthew as he waltzes right on through the masses, Darcy hobbles after him.

 

***

 

Foggy and Karen – God bless them – are already present when he guides Darcy in through their office door by the small of her back. Her heart-beat picked up ever since they’d closed in on the door and he knows that any sort of physical contact will do to steady her, she shivers a little in his vest, but her shoulders drop minimally and she braves the threshold.

“Good morning.” He greets silently, sweeping from the small of Darcy’s back to her shoulder-blade, touch solidifying there for the tick of a second, before he removes his hand altogether; he can tell that the woman has caught both Karen’s and Foggy’s attention – they’re waiting for an explanation.

“This,”, he says while relieving Darcy at least of the Bagels, “-is Ms Lewis, she was dropped at my front doorstep like Quasimodo by our mutual acquaintance.”

The wording has the desired effect and Darcy squeaks unnaturally. “Seriously? Quasimodo? I mean, I can see you doing the whole Rollo thing, and I know you can’t like _see_ me-“, at this, Foggy makes a peculiar sound, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and Matt’s smile widens a little, “-but I am at least… at _least_ an Agnès-“, and yes, he’s a little surprised that she’s apparently read Hugo, “-and anybody who’s laid eyes on me will attest to the fact that my curves are divine.”

Were, he wants to say, because currently she’s hollow and sunken all over her body, though he does not doubt that once she’s filled out that statement will ring truer than the bells of Notre Dame. This does not mince the fact that his smile is wide as the Seine herself and he tilts his head into the direction of where he perceives Foggy.

Foggy, whom he knows to have a thing for mouthy women with a penchant for snark – and, no matter what cards life had dealt Darcy Lewis, she had tons of both.

“Ms Lewis, while a possible new client, has been amenable to carrying both Bagels and Coffee for us, so maybe we should relieve her of the burden before adjourning into the Conference Room?” he proposes and lifts the small paper bag of still-warm Bagels.

Karen moves first, takes the cup-holder from Darcy’s fingers, reaching for Foggy’s Styrofoam before reaching for her own. “Thank you very much, Ms Lewis.” She says easily. “I know Mr Murdock can be a little… pushy so I hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle.”

He can hear Darcy grab for her coffee, gets a whiff of her, antiseptic salve, blood that cloys to her jeans, his shirt and pullover on her and something distinctly… _her_ , before it’s layered over with whatever Henrietta came up for her.

“If you mean to tell me that he’s a freaking Hurricane and should really think of taking on his father’s Ring-name, then yes: he can be pushy. But given the fact that he’s bribed me with a cup for myself I’d say we’re even.”

Foggy perks up at this – and isn’t the only one; he hadn’t been aware that she might have known about his father.

“His father’s ring name?” Foggy hooks in – seriously God bless that mind that works so similarly to his own after years and years and years of knowing each other; he’s probably giving him a side-glance too, Matt thinks he can feel it, but he’s not outright staring (yet).

“Battling Jack?” Darcy asks, and there’s a hint of something new there – something a little cracked and smoky in her voice that reminds him of yesterday, a mix of Irish lilt and clouded Jazz Bars, and he files it away for now. “I know myself a Murdock when I see one. And if _that_ -“, she might be pointing at him, “-isn’t Jonathan ‘Battling Jack’ Murdock’s son then I’m eating my weight in spinach.”

His eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Popeye would be disappointed that this should not be your daily goal.” He comments drily and she snorts – it’s a happy, but equally pained sound and he suddenly remembers her wound (it had been so easy to forget for a few moments).

Foggy’s hair swishes and Matt can guess that his neck is experiencing the whiplash of its life what with his friend’s head going back and forth between the two of them – Matt decides to put him out of his misery.

“Yeah…”, he says, “ _Battling Jack_ was my father. But it’s the first time anyone has ever considered me to be a family member of his – not a lot of people knew of him.”

In all honesty it speaks of a very specific upbringing: time, location, circumstance, situation – he can tell a lot of things about her by now, judged by the way she slipped in her syntax as well as her accent earlier, the knowledge about his father, her wit and quick repartee. That’s street-bred through and through; middle-class at best, if even.

Karen realizes first that the following silence might become awkward and shuffles a little, grabs a pen and a small stack of papers – client sheets amongst others – and probably throws a smile at Darcy. He’s never seen it but he knows of its efficacy when dealing with tightly-strung clients.

“Let’s see what brings you to us, okay?” she says and motions towards the farther end of the office towards their Conference Room; Matt catches the subtle hint of perfume on her, it’s her favourite and it’s nearly empty, but she’s stubborn about it and will wear it until the day it is no more (he should look into it, having nice things never hurt anybody and it reminds her of her grandmother).

Darcy’s steps are stilted again, wobbly against their hardwood floor and Matt lets both of the women go ahead, needs for her to feel a little more settled before they descend on her and pluck apart whatever story she dishes out – it’s more than likely to be a lie, but he can’t help but hope that she’ll let a few clues drop; just enough for The Devil to know whom to visit.

When they’re inside, the door closed behind them, Foggy turns to him – he probably gives him a very peculiar look, but Matt doesn’t know and when he’s met with only silence, he finally quirks his brow. “What?”

“She’s wearing your shirt.” Foggy finally says and the swish of his head, betrays its shaking motion, left-right-left-right-left-right; his friend heaves a sigh. “And you know she’s hot without needing to see. Hottie-Radar-Matt striking again. …What’s her story?”

“Devil found her next to a dumpster waiting to die, injury arrow-made. Claire stitched her up. Devil put her into the apartment of blind lawyer and said _abogado_ brought her to his law-firm because apparently there’s people after her.”

Foggy takes this in for a moment, might be he massages his jaw while he does so – the rasp of stubble against dry hands is telling – and finally nods to himself repeatedly. “You think there’s something bigger behind this.” He says.

He shrugs. “I think she’s scared and it’s not without a reason.”

They make towards the door at a leisurely place but before they enter, his friend puts a hand to his elbow and stalls him. When he speaks Matt realizes that he’s not looking at him but at the floor:“If this gets… bigger than you anticipated you tell us the moment you realize. No cloak and dagger shit this time around, you got me?”

He nods, understands, and opens the door – Foggy follows.

 

-

 

Her name is Darcy Ellen Lewis; daughter to Lorna Lewis and an unknown paternal unit that left before she was even a blip on the proverbial radar 26 years ago; entered the world two weeks too early while her mother was on a Chem Expo in Berlin, showcasing for a pharma lobbyist. Standard education, standard grades, until undergrad when Lorna Lewis was hit hard by the death of her parents and turned to alcoholism which resulted in a car-crash and life-long consequences for her memory – apparently she hasn’t recovered to date and is not present in the life of Darcy Lewis outside of the daughter paying the medical bills.

But this is not the interesting part.

Because the interesting part is actually a whole lot of silence that Darcy has contractually agreed to.

“I’m sorry I can’t back you on this but the mountain of NDAs I’ve signed scares me to this day and I don’t want to know what’ll happen if I violate even one itty-bitty part of a clause in there. I can’t even remember them anymore.” She looks at Matt then. “If your friend ever has trouble with people knowing of his identity he should seriously look into SHIELD’s NDAs.”

She gives them more than she probably wants with that one sentence, taking into account that SHIELD basically went live just last autumn and is now available to everyone with a decent ability to look for the right things on the web, and he doesn’t doubt that this is deliberate. Hasn’t got anything to do with what she doesn’t tell them after all – just a tip; can easily be played down in court.

He nods, waits for her to continue.

For some time it doesn’t; not really. Darcy looks for the words but doesn’t know how to come up with them and instead sips on her tepid milk-shake – he’s been told they call it a ‘Babychino’, frothed milk with the barest hint of Vanilla Syrup; Henrietta is a saint – looking to gather herself.

“I can hear the synapses firing.” He finally says after five minutes of pregnant silence and if the huff is anything to go by then it has the desired effect and he’s managed to pull Darcy Lewis a little bit out of her shell; she takes a breath (here comes).

“Look… I… know that you want to know what happened and how and who did it. And I want to tell you for the mere satisfaction of seeing you go after them – you’re Pitbulls, all three of you, I can see it, get that bit between your teeth and you’re not going to let go until the appendage is yours and the body attached is in the ground.”

He’s appreciative of the fact that she’s not excluding Karen or Foggy – he knows they’re both as vicious as he is when they want to be; she proves to be a quick study of character if she can see it too. Speaks for her.

“We can’t help you, if you don’t-“

“You can’t – period.” Darcy snaps, her patience has run thin.

He’s wondered how long she would let herself be lulled into what she perceives to be a false sense of security. The Devil has heard it and Matt has heard it; she wants to reach out, yes, but she doesn’t want to pull civilians into this – is hesitant to even pull a vigilante into her problem, no matter if he’s decided to help her.

She stands a little reluctantly, but decided, her heartbeat is steady, as is her voice.

“I don’t know why I’ve come here.” She confides. “And I’m sorry if I wasted your time; I really am – I’d say send me a bill, but I don’t have an address and right now I need to leave. I’m sorry.” She hesitates then as she turns to the door, hand on the knob, just the breath of a second. “Thank you.”

She’s gone after that.

 

-

 

Foggy is almost immediately up in his space.

“Okay, might I just say: what the hell?”

Matt doesn’t even twitch. “She can be trusted.”

There’s a collective silence then, the one that screams raised eyebrows, disbelieving stares and maybe a dropped jaw at him – they want him to explain and as Matt goes for his cane and stands up, he does just that.

“She needs help.” He concedes; doesn’t hold back his wry smirk when he hears Karen’s soft exhalation of relief either. “But she’s picky about her allies and that tells us more than she could in so many words.”

Again he’s met with silence, Foggy is slow on the uptake today – mostly because he hasn’t yet ingested any of the Bagels yet, for the sake of their ‘client’ he’s said. Foggy is right to say that, he gets messy when eating his beloved baked goods; there’s an inordinate amount of moaning especially where the first treat of the day is involved Matt’s learned. His shirt wrinkles, cuff-buttons sliding over the surface of the table when he ducks his shoulders and spreads his arms wider in supplication for an explanation – Matt wouldn’t be surprised if his mouth was a little wider too.

He starts pacing as he puts everything together; Karen’s pencil never left the paper and he doesn’t doubt that she’s put down some of her own observations too – client sheet his ass.

“She might be born in Berlin, but she’s been brought up in New York, Hell’s Kitchen to be precise and not by her Chemist Mother either – her accent is _pure_ kitchen. We know she went to schools outside of the radius, probably paid by her absent mother, but she was raised around here either by a family member or a friend, but they couldn’t have been highly paid; not if they lived here and were interested in a low-level boxer who used to lose his games.” Here he stops shortly, gathers the wool – Karen’s pencil is scratching and Foggy hasn’t moved, he continues his pacing when he can hear the pencil stopping and the paper crinkle a little as she puts her hand to it, looking up.

“Considering she paid her mother’s bills throughout undergrad, she must have either worked somewhere or have a relative who has the means to do so – logically there’s a paper-trail. But the thing is-“, and here he stops again, “-the thing is that The Devil found her next to a dumpster in Hell’s Kitchen, dying, because she wanted to be close to the thing that was most precious to her without leading people who are following her towards it. The thing is that while she should be a civilian she withstands surgery without anaesthetic and does not black out from the pain, no matter what she wants a blind lawyer to believe. The thing is that even though she’s aware that she won’t be able to make it alone, she doesn’t want to pull supposedly innocent people into whatever is happening to her – despite the fact that, Foggy, sorry, but she has your wallet.”

His friend jumps from his chair as if he’s burned, patting himself down for his wallet to find that, indeed, it’s gone – Matt is wryly amused at this.

“She may not have a lot of scruples, but she does have a moral compass.”

Foggy is still cursing the woman; Matt Murdock prepares himself for having The Devil find Darcy Lewis again after nightfall.

 

***

 

“You can try to follow me around all night, _diabhal_ , or you can come out of your shadows and talk to me.”

He melts out of the shadows above her, separates from the wall and is suspended in the air for a moment as he saunters down towards her into the back-alley. She’s meant to make it out of Hell’s Kitchen, but there was something about the alley that drew her back – something is not quite right; because she knows them and there should be a calling card (they always leave one after all) and she hasn’t found it this time around.

“You are not a mere civilian.” He assesses, his posture guarded – he doesn’t near her more than necessary and Darcy almost misses the closeness from the night before, but she knows it had been born out of urgency.

She turns, surveys the back-alley again. “I’m not like your friends if that’s what you mean.” Darcy answers, settles on her haunches with a wince and looks for the place she’s been leaning just a night ago – there’s something on the plaster there, underneath the smudge that was her apparently; no wonder she hasn’t found it yesterday.

“I wouldn’t be too certain about that.” The Devil says and comes closer – she should be bothered by the fact that she doesn’t mind him coming closer to her, see what she does. “The paint is fresh under your blood.”

“It’s their calling card.”

For a moment he’s silent, before he settles on his haunches just like her – he doesn’t crowd her, doesn’t initiate physical contact, but it’s close enough to equate the two either way.

“Matt told me you’ve had a run-in with SHIELD at one point…”, he starts and she swears if she is going to stay, the first thing she’ll do is wash that lawyer’s mouth with soap for violating her confidentiality rights.

“Several. And currently they’re the reason a Tong is on my arse-cheeks like leather on Black Widow.”

He seems to contemplate this, before he shifts forward, eases the plastic of a waste-bag aside; assesses the Black Lily on the house front.

“Why are you running?”

She shakes her head. “We could stand here all night and I’d open up my heart to you and tell you all my troubles – but what would it matter? What could you possibly do that I cannot?” she shrugs. “The way I see it the more I involve other people the more others are bound to get hurt. I’m not about to pull the last hope of a desolate place like Hell’s Kitchen into my orbit for shit.”

He presses his mouth together angrily – she can see that this is not how he wants this to go, wonders why he’s so interested in her when she’s certain other people need the help at least just as much.

At last he sighs. “I cannot force support on you when, clearly, you do not want it. But may I at least know why you won’t accept it?”

Darcy knows she shouldn’t give in to the question, she knows the less he’s aware of what’s happening the more he’ll be able to stay out of her troubles. But then on the other hand she feels that she owes him… somewhat; at least for saving her life.

“I won’t put innocents into the line of fire, for one.” She starts, reaching out to cover up the Black Lily again. “I also can’t ask you to abandon the rest of your flock and help a single man.” She turns, looks directly at him; there’s something familiar in the way he looks at her as if she wasn’t really there, but she can’t place the motion. “This is important to me, as in lives at stake and all the shit you would want to imagine, and I’ve been dropped once already, can’t afford to have it happen a second time.”

His face morphs into something decidedly displeased, she has to think of Bruce Wayne behind his mask and wonders if all vigilantes-by-night share the same facial tics. “Sounds like you could use the back-up though.”

She shrugs, turns, makes to walk away and never return. “Sure could, but it’s gone past that point.” She stops at the mouth of the alley, doesn’t look back, but doesn’t act as if the next words aren’t addressed to him. “Two months ago I’d have begged for someone like you, or even Matthew Murdock, to appear – I’d have grasped your offer with bloodied hands and I wouldn’t have let go. But I can’t do that now. I’m too close and have an advantage for once.”

He sighs, steps closer, but not as close as before – he keeps his distance and she knows that she’s won this round; knows he’ll let her go ( _it hurts as much as it’s a relief_ ).

“You know where he works.” He finally says. “And if ever you change your mind, consider it your Notre Dame.”

The quirk of her lips is involuntary, but she doesn’t stop it. “Told you that too, did he?” she teases. “Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law, Will adhere to your rights unless faced with his vigilante-boyfriend.”

He snorts, chokes ( _and she relishes a little in having put a crack into his armour; haven’t lost that touch yet, Lewis_ ) but covers it up quickly: “Just means you made an impression.” She steps out of the alley, heart heavier than she would like, ducking her chin to her chest and hunching her shoulders over.

“Really wish I hadn’t.”


End file.
